


Thirty days

by semi_sweet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Abuse, Anal Plugs, Anal Sex, Ass-eating, Blowjobs, Bottom!Pete, Compilation, DON'T JUST LOOK AT HER ASS EAT IT, Death, Disassociation, First Kiss, Fluff, I AM SORRY, I attempted humour, Kinda, Light BDSM, M/M, Party Games, Rape, Smut, TWs at the beginning of every chapter, Top!Patrick, WHY DO I MAKE EVERYTHING ANGST, confession of love, high Patrick, how do I tag ass-eating?, whatever idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-04 20:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: I asked my pal Kass to give me 30 otp prompts to fill up the time til I have a new full-length work finished, I won't update every day, but there will be 30 Chapters of Peterick.





	1. What are you waiting for? Kiss him, kiss him!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: First kiss

It probably wasn't normal to feel so nervous about drinking alcohol on your 18th birthday, but Patrick couldn't deny the feeling of guilt that had settled in his gut when Pete had turned up with a tray of cheap, canned beers. Beers. Not even any hard stuff.  
There was still something uncomfortable about hiding on his mom's basement with his little group of friends ("little group" being Pete, Joe, John and Ben, though Patrick wasn't quite sure what their ex-guitarist and ex-drummer were doing there) and illegally drinking just because a number on a piece of paper determined he was now responsible for stuff like taxes and could go to proper jail if he ever did end up murdering Pete for one of his pranks. Maybe he'd get a lesser sentence if he could twist low self-esteem to fit into the "mentally unstable" tag.

Patrick awkwardly sat on the cold, cement floor cross-legged, in Joe's stupid "never have I ever"-circle. Why Joe, who was even younger than himself, was so into this whole drinking/partying thing, he would never know. He'd been obviously disappointed when Patrick had clapped down his suggestion of a huge birthday do in some club which would probably end up with Patrick sitting in a corner on his own whilst Joe got high and Pete hit it off with a chick. Or two, maybe. He didn't care what the other two did, he'd never exactly bonded with them and now they weren't even in the same band anymore, he didn't know why Joe had dragged them along, and he'd always been a little bitter about the fact that Ben had got the drummer stint.  
Pete wiggled his eyebrows as Joe determined he should start.  
"Alright, never have I ever..." Patrick squirmed a little below Pete's gaze as he tried to come up with a good question. Probably struggling to find something he hadn't done. "... had sex with more than one person." Pete took a large gulp of beer and Joe groaned in frustration. "Dude, that's not how it works, you've gotta say something you haven't done."  
"Yeah or drink when I have. I know the game, Trohman, I'm 22, I know how this goes. Drink."  
Joe took a hesitant sip, as did John.  
"My turn... never have I ever drank my own piss." Pete shrugged it off as he took another swig and Patrick's face scrunched up in distaste.  
Patrick had to drink to John's rather lame question of "been naked", an obvious ploy to force them all into joining in.  
He didn't actually know if Pete was just drinking for the hell of it or because he really had to on every fucking question, four rounds came and went and he'd downed four cans and was on his fifth when he lifted it to his lips in resignation, confirming he'd been given a hand job by a guy. Patrick pulled his sweater to his ears to hide the flush spreading across his face.  
"Your go, Tricky!" Joe yodeled, embarrassingly tipsy after only two beers.

Patrick paused, he had the opposite problem to Pete - there was so much he hadn't done he felt awkward about it and desperately tried to think of something that wouldn't show him up as a boring nerd too much. "I've never... ki- had sex." It was incredible that that hadn't been asked yet, probably because, well, he was alone on that, as Pete's surprised splutter confirmed. Patrick didn't turn his head when he felt beer dribbling onto his right knee and toyed with the sleeves of his hoodie instead, burning up under Pete's stare. "What, like, for real?" He tried to shrug it off, but tensed up at the feeling of a hand over his beer-drenched jeans. Patrick made a point not to look at Pete's fingers digging into his leg.

He couldn't, however, repress the shivers sent down his spine by Pete leaning in, close to his ear, so close he could feel his hot breath against his neck, and growling, in a low voice, "so our little Patrick is a virgin. Never fucked anybody. Never been fucked." He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing when Pete's hand started drifting up his leg and closer, closer to...

"Come on Pete, cut it out." He was wearing that stupidly wide grin on his face when he pulled away from Patrick. _That stupidly wide, gorgeous grin._ Patrick sighed and opened his eyes again, doing his best to readjust his crotch area without anybody noticing.  
Pete drank again when he lied about never having kissed a boy, and when the turn reached Joe, he declared he'd got bored and wanted to play something else.

"Let's do truth or dare!" Pete rolled his eyes and flopped backwards until his spine hit the floor. He pulled a face at the cold that wormed its way through hit t-shirt. Patrick tore his eyes away from the thin slither of skin between his low, tight jeans and his black top, and met Pete's smug face for a second before hurriedly turning back to Joe, who'd already procured an old champagne bottle from a crate in the corner of the room.  
Patrick fucking hated this game.

Ben dared him to neck two cans. He fucking hated Ben.  
Joe truthed Pete into admitting he'd had guy crushes, but he drew a line when Joe tried to pressurize him into saying who it was. Patrick dared Joe to strip to his underwear, which he was quite proud with, he didn't think he'd come up with something that good.  
That mean, of course, that Joe was keen on revenge when his spin landed on Patrick.  
"I dare you into 7 Minutes." Patrick shrugged it off as casually as he could, "fine, I pick you."  
"Ah, you'd be so lucky! Nah, the bottle's picking the second player."

Of course it was Pete.

Who else would it be.

Better Pete than Ben, right?

Pete got up with surprising enthusiasm from his bored spot on the floor and pulled Patrick up when he took his hand.  
"See ya later, guys!" Pete sing-songed when he shoved Patrick into the boiler room and closed the door behind them.

It was dark. Obviously. Patrick awkwardly hugged himself, not really prepared for the way Pete probably played 7 Minutes. Horror scenarios of having to make out with Pete, or blowing him or-  
"I fucking hate this game." Patrick relaxed a little when he heard his voice was soft and kind, none of the mischief that had laced it before bleeding through.  
Patrick could just about make out the other man settling down on the floor and lowered himself down to face him.

"Sorry this is kind of a shit birthday, I know you're not into the whole drinking and party games thing, I feel tempted to blame it on Trohman, but I was the one who bought the beer so..:" he trailed off awkwardly. "'s fine Pete, beats being alone, I guess. And drunk Joe is... interesting." A light chuckle filled the room. "Yeah, that's one way to put it."  
They sat in pleasant silence for a while until the sound of Ben wolf-whistling reached Patrick's ears. He rolled his eyes. "God, I can't stand that dude." He added a nervous little laugh so it wouldn't sound so harsh, but to his relief, Pete matched his awkward giggling. "Yeah, I get that... he's a bit of a dick."  
"Yeah, AND he stole my spot!"  
It was meant to be a joke, but Pete's little laugh immediately stopped. "I'm sorry."

Well, this wasn't what he'd expected. Patrick frowned at his friend, who, of course, couldn't see. "Why?"  
"I just... I pushed you into singing. I can be kinda pushy. And kinda selfish. Okay, pretty selfish. I shouldn't have pushed you."  
The genuine concern in his voice touched Patrick to the point of his reaching out and placing a gentle hand on Pete's shoulder. "Hey, dude, it's okay, like... if it bothered me that much, I wouldn't still be in this band. Besides, I'm not all that good at drums."

"No, don't say that. You are. You're good at everything, you could play everything. Honestly I don't know why you wanna be in a band with me, all I do is complain and bully you guys, and I'm not even a decent bassist."  
Patrick shuffled closer to Pete at those words, until he had his arm around his shoulders and their bodies were pressed together, side-by-side. "You're my friend Pete, and I like you. I _really_ like you. I only joined because of you." Pete dropped his head onto Patrick's shoulder and Patrick felt an odd warmth, that reminded him of that horrid feeling he got when his anxiety started acting up, except it was... pleasant. He didn't realize what he was doing until his lips were leaving the top of his friend's head again.  
"I'm sorry I'm like this. This is your birthday, fuck, I shouldn't be... this isn't about me."  
"No, no it isn't. But it's about us and that includes you and I want you to know I wouldn't exchange you. You and Joe and I, we fit. We just... need to figure out the other members." Pete nodded against his shoulder weakly.

"I'm sorry about the... thing earlier. I just... I get nervous in groups and... I don't feel comfy around those two," he weakly cocked his head towards the door behind them, "but I shouldn't have... touched you like that or said those things, I thought it would be funny, but I get it wasn't, I mean I-"  
"Pete," he shut up the second Patrick interrupted him, "it's fine. It's okay, I'm not mad, I get it, I- I've got this whole anxiety thing going on, too," he lifted a hand and loosely waved it around his head, "besides..." he hesitated, contemplating whether this would be a wise thing to say, then again, it was Pete Wentz. He lowered his voice, "it was kinda hot." He bit his lip, stifling a chuckle when Pete's body obviously tensed. He was about to reply, Patrick could tell, when there was a rapping at the door.

"Are you even _doing_ anything in there???" Pete sighed heavily, "hey, fancy fucking John up real bad?" Patrick nodded enthusiastically, somehow Pete caught it through the dim light, or he didn't care about the answer, because next thing Patrick knew, he was letting out tiny little gasps, more like squeaks really. Patrick sat up properly and stared at the outline of Pete's figure, who got a little louder before totally taking him aback. "God, Patrick, yes, so good, you're so good."  
Patrick snorted and covered his mouth before realizing it was probably contributing to the scene building in the other guys' heads. He waited about half a minute before doing it again, Pete was getting louder and louder, and Patrick could tell he was grinning through his little act, the odd chuckle escaping his lips.

By the time Joe declared their time up - sounding slightly shaken - they were both trying their absolute hardest to not burst out in fits of laughter. They both waited a minute before Pete roughed up Patrick's hair a bit (but forbidding Patrick to so much as touch his, which was kind of pointless, it was so short, it couldn't really be roughed up) and they both stumbled out, grinning stupidly.

The other three were sitting in awkward silence, staring at them, partly in doubt, partly in disbelief, and Patrick had to do his best not to reveal the truth when he realized that they most likely thought he'd just been sucking his bassist off in his boiler room after a bit of illegal drinking. Hadn't thought this through. He hid behind Pete as best he could, feeling tense and uncomfortable and wanting nothing more than to lock himself in his room and hide under the blankets.

But then Pete's fingers wound their way around his own in a way that none of the others could see and he felt a little bit of the anxiousness shift from his chest.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, and nobody, not even Joe, dared speak up against Pete fucking Wentz. Patrick felt a little fuzzy at that.

 

 

"Hey, Joe, next time, please leave them at home." Patrick said, not angry or annoyed, he played it off as semi-casual as he said good night to hos friends on his porch. Joe nodded understandingly, "yeah, they got kinda annoying, I remember why we kicked 'em out... I won't bring 'em again, pinkie promise." Patrick rolled his eyes when they hooked their little fingers together. "See ya!" Joe took off towards the street, but paused and turned when he realized Pete hadn't followed. "Coming, Wentz?" Pete was still leaning in the door frame, facing Patrick, a smile on his face. "I'll catch you up." Joe tutted and slowly started walking off.

"So... thanks for the invite. I had fun. Well, most of the time." He grinned broadly, charming a little giggle out of Patrick, who looked at his feet, "yeah."  
The blond raised his head and was about to thank his friend for coming, but when their eyes met, he was lost for words. "I, umh... realize I kinda didn't really get you a gift, well, the beer, but Trohman drank most of that..." Patrick felt his heart speed up when Pete straightened himself and took a step towards him. "So I was, umh, thinking, maybe I could..."

Patrick's throat felt dry and croaky when he felt two large, dry hands on his cheeks. "Go ahead," he somehow managed to articulate between Pete's fingers. This was a bad idea, a really bad idea, don't shit where you eat, especially when you eat in the same place as Pete fucking We-

His mind went blank of all the babbling, screaming, scratching noise for just a second when he felt plump lips press against his own. Pete's eyes were closed and Patrick figured he should probably do the same as one hand stroked his cheek gently and soft lips worked his mouth open. Patrick felt ridiculously clumsy, awkwardly gaping around on Pete's face, but the hand that wasn't stroking him was carefully guiding his movements, placing them in the right position at the right time.  
His breath hitched when Pete slyly slipped his tongue through his parted lips and made its way into his mouth. It took Patrick a moment to catch on, but he soon got the hang of how to find his way around inside of Pete's mouth.

Pete pressed one more gentle peck to his forehead before pulling away, that stupid, gorgeous broad grin on his face. "I'll see ya tomorrow, Tricky, I'll order a hooker so you don't die a virgin."  
"At least I won't die without my first kiss now," he said awkwardly, staring at his feet again, not wanting to see the mockery on Pete’s face when he realized what Patrick had just said.

“Oh my god, really?” Patrick nodded, a little embarrassed by his own inexperience. “God, sorry, I wouldn’t have… asked if I’d known, that was shitty.”  
Patrick frowned and looked at him when he felt reassured that he was not going to be made fun of by Pete, not tonight. “What for?”  
“Well, kiss virginity taken by Pete Wentz. Kinda… yeah, sorry, dude.” He shook his head, “no, no, I liked it. I… wouldn’t have it any other way.” Pete’s stupid grin returned. “Can I… kiss you again?” Patrick nodded, almost desperately.

It was softer this time, they left out the French bit, but Patrick felt warm and fuzzy, that anxiety-but-not-anxiety-because-it-was-pleasant-feeling back in his gut and he found himself mirroring Pete’s ridiculously pleased expression. “Night, night, Lunchbox.” Patrick rolled his eyes at the nickname, but the smile remained on his face. “Night, Pete.”


	2. My heart is the worst kind of weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: first "I love you"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do I make everything angsty smh I need to practice light-hearted writing

The loose thread on his hoodie seemed twenty times more interesting when the distraction it brought was a welcome one. Pete fiddled with it awkwardly, not raising his eyes once as he let the little blond man yell his tantrum out.  
For once, he may just be right.   
Not that that made the endless accusations any better, really.

Pete barely registered the pick that bounced off his forehead, just over his brow, as his jaw clenched uncontrollably and he swallowed audibly. He wasn’t listening to Patrick’s words anymore, they were just a string of insults thrown his way to remind him of how much he had fucked up. Again. But tremendously this time.

Would he be thrown out?

Joe had left ages ago, tired of both of their bullshit, Andy was sitting behind the piano in the corner, peering over the top of his glasses at the scene unfolding in front of him and jittering uncomfortably. Pete guessed he was worried to leave them alone in case Patrick committed murder tonight. Pete wouldn’t blame him.

Honestly, he’d forgotten about it, it wasn’t that big of a deal, it was just a picture. How was he to know that bitch would sell it to the rag that offered the highest price for Pete Wentz’s dick pic? A small part of him hoped it had at least cost them a decent amount, otherwise he wasn’t just a celebrity internet whore, he was a _cheap_ celebrity internet whore, and he couldn’t have that.

Something smashed.

Pete didn’t look up to check what it was, it sounded suspiciously like his bass, though. Better it than him. Though he deserved it more.

He did, however, look up at the sudden silence.

Patrick had sat down on one of the stools by the amps. His right elbow was resting on one of the stacks, his forehead resting against his palm. He was trying to hide the quiet chokes that shook his body as his emotions threatened to get the better of him. He deserved better than Pete, he deserved so much better than Pete and his stupid, selfish, inconsiderate bullshit. But Pete didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know how to apologize, he didn’t know if he could apologize. After all this kid had done for him, he kept throwing all his kindness and caring back in his face.

“Patrick, I-“

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice betraying him as it pitched higher than usual. Patrick cleared his throat and tried again, “please, just… don’t, Pete. Don’t.”  
“I just, I’m s-“  
“Spare me. Just… just go. Please.”

The worst thing was that he didn’t sound mad, or even upset, just resigned. Resigned. Like he’d had enough, this was enough.

Pete pulled his shoulders to his ears and walked himself out of Patrick’s studio, out of Patrick’s house, out of Patrick’s way to give him space to sort himself out even when he wasn’t the one in need of it right now.

-

Pete had to practice a lot of restraint not to call Patrick in the next six days. But he managed not to. He bought a new bass, he made a few cakes (five), went jogging a lot to make up for the five cakes, wrote enough lyrics for half an album, played some piano, baked another cake, wrote some more lyrics and watched all the Star Wars movies in one sitting.

He was about to lose it and call Patrick when his phone lit up.

_My place. 4 p. m. Don’t bother bringing anything._

A sinking feeling set in as he read over the last sentence again and again. Don’t bother bringing anything. He was being kicked out.

Panic set in.

He fucked up, he knew that, he really had, but compared to nearly offing himself in a fucking parking lot in fucking Chicago, a dick pic seemed comparatively unproblematic.

He couldn’t be without this band. He was nothing without them. All he did was throw his shitty thoughts and feelings at them, forcing Patrick to sing about his problems so he might not have to carry them alone. He was nothing on his own. An emo mess with shitty hair and a shittier fashion sense and nothing but a bunch of paparazzi to call his friends. Everybody hates Pete Wentz, right? It’s everybody’s favourite sport.

In the end, he turned up an hour late. Not his best move. Joe shoot him a look that said _he is super-pissed_ when he opened Patrick’s front door. Pete prepared for the worst. He wasn’t wearing eye liner, the tears would only smudge it. Patrick didn’t comment on that.

In fact, the rings under his eyes were dark enough to pass off as make-up, an odd turn of events. Pete didn’t bother sitting down, he figured he’d be leaving pretty soon anyway. He wanted to ask Joe why now, why they’d made this decision now, but Patrick answered that question for him.

“It’s too much, Pete. Every fucking week it’s something else and I spend so much of my life cleaning up your mess and I’m fine with it, I really am, I know you have a tough time with… everything, you take literally all the crap aimed at us, so I’m fine with being there for you or whatever, I’m even fine with explaining away your crazy lyrics or defending your bullshit or whatever. But I’ve just, I’ve had enough, Pete. It’s too much. I know you think I’m some saint but I’m not and I can’t handle it anymore.” When he paused for breath, Pete took his chance and leapt in. “Please, Trick, please, I get it, I do, I’m fucked up, I really am, but I’ll try to be better! I’m nothing without you guys, I need-“

“I’m quitting the band.”

“ _What?!_ ” It was Andy who broke the silence.

No, no, this was a thousand times worse. “No, no, no, Patrick, no, please, don’t do this.”  
“I can’t do it anymore, Pete.” He was rubbing his temple so hard it was turning red, “I can’t handle any of this, it’s too much, I just wanna make my music and be left alone I’m so, _so_ tired.”

“I get that, I do, I’m sorry, I’m a dick, I really am, I don’t deserve you, none of you, but please, don’t leave, throw me out, anything, but don’t leave!”

A tear dripped down onto the floor in front of Patrick’s feet and he wiped his eyes in irritation. “I’m not throwing you out because _I_ can’t handle the pressure, Pete. We’re not all that selfish.” Patrick drew a sharp breath at that, “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. I’m tired.”

Pete was panicking, for real, it was one thing if he ruined his own life, he couldn’t ruin Patrick’s. “Don’t, don’t do this, you deserve this success, please, you need to be out there, you need to give this to people, you need-“

“No, Pete, no, this is about _me_ for once. I don’t give a shit about how much people want m- my voice, look, they don’t even want me, just my fucking voice, my songs, not me, nobody gives a shit about me. I can’t even handle this bit of negative press, Jesus, Pete, I’m not cut out for this.”

Pete looked to the other two guys for help, but their expression was shock mixed with understanding. _No, they can’t just accept this._ “I need to get out.” Pete was too shaken to move as Patrick pushed past him and out of the room. It was only when the front door closed Pete realized Patrick had just walked out of his life.

_No I won’t let him._

Patrick was halfway down the street when Pete caught up with him. “Trick, please, don’t.”

The small man angrily snatched his arm out of his grip and glared at him. His eyes were red. “Fuck OFF Pete! I’m so TRIED! You can’t even stick with the fucking BASICS! You don’t just send around fucking dick pics when you’re fucking famous I’m so fucking done with your fucking shit holy shit fuck you Pete, really! I really hate you sometimes!”

Pete physically recoiled.

A knot formed in his throat. “I- I’m”

“Don’t you fucking dare say you’re sorry, don’t you _dare_.”

Pete was going to “say I’m sorry” but at the sudden change of plan, his brain panicked and blurted out the one thing he had promised himself never to say to Patrick.

“I’m in love with you.”


	3. Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: a death

Patrick sat silently next to Pete for the entire way there. Usually, the momentary quiet would be a welcome change from his usual babbling-slash-bickering, not that Pete minded that, but sometimes he’d sneak in ear plugs when Patrick was going off about some major to minor progression again. Patrick never even noticed it, he was so busy talking to himself.  
But now, Pete couldn’t enjoy it because he knew it wasn’t a tired silence or a “Pete I’m working, leave me alone” silence. He gently stroked his husband’s left knee as he drove them both through downtown LA, stopping at red lights rather than speeding to get through them whilst they were still amber. Putting it off probably wasn’t any good for either of them, but he wasn’t exactly an expert on self-care.

Patrick’s fingers were nervously fluttering against each other, intertwining and cracking uncomfortably whilst his jaw ground in anxiousness. Pete lifted his hand that had been in Patrick’s lap and gently placed it against his cheek. “Stop that. You’ll hurt yourself.” He relaxed a little and cocked his head so he was leaning into Pete’s large, coarse hand, his eyes closed.

Their Mercedes pulled up outside of their destination and Pete hopped out, walking around the car to hold Patrick’s door open for him. “I can’t believe you get so panicky, it’s just a check-up.” He pointed out as Patrick held onto his hand on their way into the dentist’s.

“I’ve been having tooth ache and I never have tooth ache and I know they’re gonna have to drill around in my mouth and I would rather fucking die, Pete.”  
He stopped in his tracks and pulled his better half so he was facing him. His thumbs gently drove over Patrick’s cheek bones as he held his face in both his hands so he was forced to look at him. “Don’t ever say that, Tricky. Please don’t.” Pete pressed his lips to his forehead before pushing him into a seat in the corner of the waiting room next to the fish tank. They calmed him, considerably. There was a reason Pete’s last present to Patrick had been a large aquarium for the studio, whenever he was freaking out, Patrick would sit in front of it, cross-legged, and watch the tiny fish swim rounds in front of him. He was like a little kid when he did that and Pete constantly praised himself for coming up with that idea.

“Mr. Stump-Wentz?” Patrick rolled his eyes at the stupid double-barrelled name they’d thought was cute at the time but now regretted even more than the fact that they’d had three tiers of cupcakes instead of a normal wedding cake.  
His shoulders were hunched when he was walked off towards the back of the practice and Pete didn’t know whether to feel sorry for his husband or marvel at how adorable he was being.

*

Pete read four pages before the assistant showed up again, “your partner would like you to come quickly, if you wouldn’t mind.” He chuckled at Patrick’s request, he really was like a five-year old. Couldn’t even get his teeth checked on his own. “Sure, I’m on my way.” His book mark was a piece of paper Patrick had doodled some purple hearts on when he was trying to avoid conversation during a Wentz family gathering once.

Patrick looked like he was about to cry when Pete appeared in the doorway and made grabby hands at him. He couldn’t help but let a smile engulf his face at how insanely _cute_ he was being. “What’s the matter, babe?”  
“I’ve got cavities,” Patrick confessed, as though he was telling his dad and was afraid of getting shouted at. Pete just gently stroked his hair. “That’s because you eat way too much chocolate, love. It’s not that bad, they’ll give you fillings, you won’t even be able to tell.” The dentist nodded in agreement before pulling up a tray littered with an array of threatening tools. Patrick’s eyes widened when he saw the syringe the assistant had filled with the local anaesthetic and he shook his head desperately. “No, no, can’t you just… knock me out?” The dentist raised his eyebrows. “For a few fillings?” The nod he received in return was almost a shameful one and he sighed “okay, fine. Lucy, get me the isoflurane.”

Pete stroked Patrick’s knuckles as he breathed in the drug. He passed out after a minute.

“God, this is a hell of a lot of fuss for a fucking filling, is he always like this?” Pete just nodded as the dentist got to work.

*

It was cute at first, but by the time it got to bedtime and Patrick was still fucking high on isoflurane, Pete started getting pissy. He had to climb into the shower with Patrick to make sure he didn’t black out and drown himself, then he had to clean his teeth for him and help him get changed (he gave up half way, making him go to bed in his boxers, but he couldn’t be arsed).

Thankfully, he had his earplugs next to the bed so he could just shove them in to blend out Patrick’s babbling and roll over in the hope of getting some rest.

When the bed started shaking just as Pete was drifting off, he decided he’d had enough. Pete sat up and tore the little plastic buds out of his ears, ready to have a go at Patrick when he stopped dead. Carefully, he reached out to his bare shoulder and gently placed his hand on it.  
“Patrick, darling, what’s the matter?” his little figure kept on shaking beneath the sheets and small sobs escaped his lips as tears rolled down his cheek. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry babe, it’s just been a long day and-“

Suddenly, Patrick broke down and started positively howling, his face turned bright red as his heart-wrenching cries tore through Pete’s chest and made him worry for his best friend. He did the only thing he could do and wrapped himself around him, pulling his body closer to his own, tangling their legs together and steadying his head against his chest with a hand in his blond hair. Pete kissed his head repeatedly as a hand grasped onto his bicep and fingernails dug into his skin.

They stayed like that for five minutes or so until Patrick managed to choke out an explanation through his tears, “It’s my fault, Pete, my fault, I couldn’t take care of him, he depended on me and I threw that in his face I’m a monster I didn’t care about him like I should have, I didn’t appreciate him whilst he was still with me and now he’s dead and it’s all my fault, it’s my fault Pete.” Pete frowned at his rambling husband and tugged at his hair gently so his glassy, blue eyes were looking into his brown ones, “who’s dead, Tricky?” Patrick’s bottom lip trembled and he just about managed to keep it together to press out one word, “Timmy!”

Pete sighed and rolled his eyes as Patrick tucked his head back under his chin and sobbed.

The fucking goldfish.

‘Timmy’ had died a week ago. Because he was a fish. Fish die. That’s all they do, eat and die. Patrick had been kinda bummed about it, always being the guy who refuses to step on bugs, and his pet fish had just died. He even buried it in their fucking garden. But he’d been a little glum for the day and then moved on. Or at least Pete had thought so

The bit of Patrick’s brain that only activated when he was either drunk or high hadn’t got over the fish’s tragic demise yet, as it seemed, going by how utterly resolved Patrick was over the matter.

“He had a good life,” Pete tried to sound as convincing as possible, trying his best to not come across as condescending, “You were good to him. Fish die, Patrick, it’s what they do. It wasn’t your fault.” _It was a fucking fish._ “He’s in fishy heaven now with all his fishy friends.” _Evidently all my friends are fishy, too._ “Timmy is happy and would want you to carry on with your life.” Patrick’s tears were damp against his bare chest as his sobs turned into sniffles, “I’m sure he’s in fishy heaven, Timmy was a good fish. Timmy always ate his greens. Good Timmy. He was a good fishy.” Pete snorted, but thankfully, Patrick was too off his head to take that as insult and just said “bless you.”

“Do you think I took good care of Timmy? Do you think Timmy loved me? Could Timmy love me? Can fishies love people?” A loud sigh filled the room as Pete decided high Patrick certainly wasn’t a thing he wanted to have to deal with frequently and thanked the gods that he wasn’t fond of weed.  
“Sure Trick, Timmy loved you. You were a great fish dad.”  
“Hmm.”  
Pete was almost sure that Patrick had drifted off when he gave him quite possibly the biggest shock of his life. Well. Second biggest. After that one time he’d knocked himself out on a doorframe that was even lower than his forehead because he shot up the stairs and towards the room behind it too quickly. “I think we should have a kid.”  
He physically spluttered at Patrick’s proposition. He knew Patrick wanted children, he just didn’t think… yet. “We’ll… talk about it.”  
“Now?”  
“No not now.”  
“Okay.”  
Pete had almost drifted off again when he felt Patrick roll on top of him and straddle his hips. “Hmm?”  
“can we have sex?”  
If his eyes hadn’t been closed, he would have rolled them. “No.”  
“Why not?”  
“Because you’re high and it’s 1.30 a. m. Go to sleep, Trick.” Patrick whined in his ear. “But I wanna.” Pete had to physically heave his husband off himself and roll him into his usual sleeping position – on his stomach, head turned to the right to face him – for him to stop groping him. “Get yourself off if you need to, I’m going to sleep.” Patrick giggled like a teenage boy at Pete's instructions.  
“Okay.” He complained. “Good night Pete.”  
“Night, Patrick.”  
“Pete?”  
“Yeeeees?!” Pete failed to keep his obvious annoyance out of his voice this time. “I really do love you a lot.”

His mouth twisted into a small smile and Pete flipped over onto his other side so he could wrap his arms around Patrick. That would do for an answer. He was too tired to string together a sentence. Not like Patrick would remember in the morning anyway.

Pete made a mental note to get him a new fish. Or maybe a puppy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well I did say I'd try to be more light-hearted. Somehow I can't write Peterick without them getting at least a little physical. oh well.  
> fun fact: My cousin-in-law really did knock himself out like that. It's probably funnier if you know what he's like.  
> Thanks for the Kudos guys!


	4. Is this more than you bargained for yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "If I go down, I'm taking you with me."
> 
> TW//rape, disassociation, self-harm, physical and psychological abuse, body image problems. This is honestly not light-hearted in any way.

The first time it happened, the first time Patrick had been talked and guilt-tripped into it until he found his face being pushed into a mattress that both muffled his whimpers and limited his breathing, his body sore and aching, and his tears staining the cloth below him, he’d been 19.

You don’t see these things coming until it’s too late. Months and months had gone by where he had considered himself the happiest and luckiest person in the world, receiving nothing hug hugs and kisses, gentle words whispered in the dark, comforting hands on his head, his face, his body.   
He couldn’t even pinpoint the moment it changed, just remembered one day waking up in a bed that suddenly wasn’t his anymore next to a man he didn’t know anymore, and feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

He swore to himself, as it happened, he would go. He would leave. He had to walk out and get away whilst he still could, whilst he could still bare it and before he fell apart.

He didn’t.

The second time it happened, Patrick had been 21. Actually, it had been his 21st birthday. He’d been having a good time, there had been quite a few people there, but the only ones that had mattered had been the three men he spent most of his life with. Joe was wasted after an hour, single-handedly entertaining the entire party as Patrick, Pete and Andy made sure to get every second of it on camera, just to ruin his life at his wedding in a few years’ time.   
Pete always made him laugh the most, though. Pete just had to laugh himself and Patrick would feel his stomach bobbing and his features tugging into a grin. Pete had had an arm around his shoulders, their heads resting against each other, and had been talking about… something, something that made Patrick happy, when he’d been pulled away, dragged into the bathrooms and bent over the row of sinks. He watched the entire thing through the long mirror in front of him. He looked pathetic.

And he swore to himself he had to get away, he had to leave, this wasn’t going to stop and it wasn’t going to get any better and he’d hear apology after apology but they wouldn’t mean anything because they hadn’t meant anything last time and being alone was better than being… this. The bruises he wore on his hips and his thighs should have been enough of a reminder that he was slowly being marked, and the longer he stayed, the harder it would be to wash the marks off.

But he stayed.

He stayed after the third time it happened, a few months later, the days he’d got back from a tour, face contorted in a pained grimace, trying to hold back the sobs so it wouldn’t get any worse than it already was, so it wouldn’t hurt even more than it already did.

He stayed after the fourth time it happened, when he was 22, void of any emotion, cutting himself of, disassociating for days after, thinking nothing of it when he hid the necklace of finger-shaped bruises around his throat below big hoodies and scarves.

He stayed. Every time.

He stopped caring. The tears and pain replaced by apathy and a distant throbbing of his torn body, too weak for him to pay any further attention to it.   
Nobody else cared. Why should he? It didn’t seem to matter.

He didn’t notice he was slipping away from reality, waking up on the wrong side of it and further away from the right one every morning, in a bed that wasn’t his, next to a person he didn’t know. He never realized how far away he was, distance became a routine, if you’re nobody, you can’t get hurt.

So he was all the more taken aback when Pete sat him down, a little too close for comfort – Patrick didn’t like physical contact, he needed his own space when he could get it – and looked at him with big, brown puppy eyes. Patrick averted his gaze, a wrong look could get you into too much trouble, better not to look at all, but he felt daggers being stared into him. He flinched when he felt coarse fingers gently stroking across a sensitive patch of skin on his face, and started panicking when he remembered he’d forgotten to hide the bruise on his cheek under an over-sized cap. He turned his face away.

Pete’s hand dropped into his lap and Patrick tried to move away from him, but a soft “don’t” from the man next to him stopped him. Like a trained dog. Patrick swallowed the lump in his throat that tasted like it had been swallowed too many times before.

It was evident Pete, for once, didn’t have words, because they sat in total silence for what must have been 45 minutes until he sighed heavily and just said: “shit.”

Shit. That felt appropriate.

“Yeah.” Patrick managed to choke through his bruised vocal chords. They were supposed to be recording today. How was he gonna record when his voice had taken the toll of last night? He shifted uncomfortably.

All it took was Pete’s hand against his back to set him off.

Two, or maybe six, years’ worth of bottled emotions flowed out of him like Pete had popped the cork of a champagne bottle.   
He somehow ended up curled up on the floor, shaking unstoppably, red on his nails from where they had dug into his skin too hard, Pete’s body pressed against his a million miles away and behind a screen. But when he pulled away to give him the space he wasn’t sure he needed, he felt naked and vulnerable and open to the world.

Wasn’t that what he’d been for the last stretch of his life?

It took over an hour for him to calm down, for Pete to get him into his bed – a bed that still wasn’t his own but more comforting than anywhere he’d been in years – and tuck him in, leaving the door open a crack because he knew Patrick hated closed doors. The light from the hallway and the sound of the TV bled through to him as he snuggled underneath the heavy, duck down duvet, and waited for sleep to settle in and drown him until he entered a world where he was completely his own.

-

Pete was asleep on the big, grey couch that decorated his large living room, a thin blanket pulled up to his chin, resulting in bare feet poking out of the bottom. Patrick sat down on the floor in front of him, cross-legged, and just watched his steady breathing and the occasional twitch of his face as he interacted with his dreams. He wondered if he looked so peaceful when he slept. Probably not.  
He’d looked at himself in the mirror that morning, properly looked, for the first time in he didn’t even know how long. The lines on his face, the absence of colour, the grey circles around his dead eyes, had shocked him. He looked so old and like a child at the same time.

His body was worse. The black bruise on his cheek was the most noticeable, but it was the imprints of large hands on his waist he couldn’t tear his eyes off. His rear was green and blue, highlighted by streaks of red.   
He was fat. Patrick prodded at the flesh on his stomach and winced when it hurt more than it should. When had that happened? When had he become fat? He felt sick looking at himself.

Pete’s nose twitched and his eyes cracked open ever so slightly. He yawned and stretched as he made himself wake up upon remembering he had a guest.

They sat opposite each other at the table in Pete’s kitchen, not speaking as Pete ate his cereal and Patrick ignored his own, but his hand was being held gently, like it hadn’t been since he’d been a teenager, and the _crunch crunch crunch_ of Pete’s breakfast between his teeth was strangely calming.

Patrick was more distant than he had been the night before. Not as far away as he was used to, a little more aware of his surroundings, not fixating on the magnet on the fridge of that leaf that was about to fall off the tree outside of Pete’s window like he usually would be, but he felt void. He forced himself to concentrate on the feeling of warm skin against his own and flipped his hand below Pete’s so their fingers could interlock. Pete didn’t squeeze or grip him tightly, which Patrick was very grateful for. He just gently held, like Patrick’s hand was a feather against his palm.

Pete demanded he hand over his phone and he did so immediately. He watched as his face pulled into a frown filled with concern whilst he scrolled through texts and Patrick was glad he hadn’t thought to check himself before now. He didn’t want to know about the threats and pleas Pete was reading through, didn’t want to know what would be done to him, how much trouble he was in. he suddenly felt sick.

The bathroom door swung open to let Pete in just as Patrick had finished emptying his stomach into the toilet, his head resting against the cold porcelain as he took deep breath and tried to disappear back into that safe space where he was too far away from himself for emotions to touch him.

And then there were hands on his shoulders, slowly and carefully pulling him back until he was resting against the bathtub behind him. Patrick closed the distance Pete had deliberately left between them and buried his face in the crook of his neck, drawing a deep breath to fill his brain with the smell of _Pete_. Fingers were lightly circling his back soothingly, skating to another spot quickly whenever they provoked a wince upon reaching a sensitive spot.

“It’s okay,” a soothing voice spoke, “it’s alright, Trick. You don’t ever have to go back, you can stay here, you can be here for as long as you want, I have it sorted. You can take your time and sort your head and fix your body and do whatever it takes, and when you’re ready, I’ll be here to help you do whatever needs to be done for you to be okay. I promise.”

Patrick tilted his head back so he could look at Pete from his position against his shoulder. His voice hurt, but he had to say it none the less “I’m sorry I was too weak. I’m sorry I didn’t come to you, I’m sorry I didn’t- didn’t leave.” He was tired of crying, but he did it none the less. It felt like the only thing he really knew how to do. Pete wiped the tears away gently with his right thumb and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. He pried Patrick’s hand off his wrist as his nails started digging into him again, stroked across the crescent marks on his skin, soothing them as best he could.

Patrick didn’t remember the last time somebody had taken care of him.

“I’ll be here for you, Patrick. And if you go down, you’re taking me with you. I won’t let you go down alone.”

And, odd as it was, those words were the ones Patrick ran through his head over and over again whenever his grip on reality slipped.

He wouldn’t go down.

He would stay afloat.

For Pete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll make up for how heavy this was next chapter. It was just something I felt I had to write.


	5. I slept with someone in Fall Out Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Filthy smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't that filthy but oh God... I'm bad at this. Apologies.

He worked his way around the full room, gliding across the floor like he owned it. Well, he did. This was his house. His ground. Even if he was wearing a suit and wearing his business face, at least the territory was familiar, at least he had the say when it came to who went where when.  
Patrick wasn’t sure how he’d ended up having a belated birthday party at his house with some lable folks he needed to impress – a bunch of people he wasn’t particularly fond of as it was – but anything to stay in everyone’s good books, right? A few hours of suits and overpriced champagne was something he could manage. Somehow.

Patrick drifted from conversation to conversation, picking up snippets, making comments that weren’t funny but everybody else felt obliged to laugh at, gripping his glass maybe a little too tight to seem as casual as he would like. A few people complimented him on the new Fall Out Boy album, a few more congratulated him on something or other they had won at some unknown awards’ night hosted by some unknown radio show and he nodded, smiling politely, doing his best to seem interested as he twisted his way through the crowd towards the nibbles. He picked up a cheese stick and popped it into his mouth, pulling the food off in one go and dropping the pick into the bin provided.

Somebody complimented his house.

Somebody asked about his music.

Somebody asked about Pete.

“Oh, he went to see his parents for the week,” Patrick replied.

He pushed out of the little round of people as politely as he could and picked up some more nibbles before heading upstairs. The babbling downstairs was louder than he would have presumed as he fumbled with the lock on his bedroom door, twisting the key until the frame clicked and he could swing it open.

Patrick felt heat shoot into various areas of his body as he smirked at the sight before him. He paced across the room, slowly, antagonizingly, until he came to a halt near Pete’s head. He was breathing heavily and twisted his face to where he thought Patrick was. Patrick let out a patronizing chuckle and tucked a finger under his partner’s chin, turning his blindfolded eyes towards him. “Hey babe.”

Pete hummed around the tie that was functioning as a gag, and Patrick felt pleased with his work when he sounded frustrated. “You’re doing so well, I didn’t hear a peep,” he praised, making sure to keep his voice low. Pete just whined. “Hey, I brought you food. Want some?” he pulled the tie out of Pete’s mouth so it was hanging around his neck loosely and held a slice of baguette with some weird caviar-esque topping in front of his face, just out of reach. “What is it?”  
“Don’t you trust me?” He tangled a hand in Pete’s hair and pulled him towards the bread. “Eat.” Pete took a careful bit and Patrick watched, mesmerized as he chewed and swallowed it down before his lips dropped open again, hungrily searching for more. Patrick chuckled and let him take another bite. This was too much fun.

“Starving.” Pete muttered when he’d finished the baguette. “Mmh, I’ve got more if you want it, baby.” Pete nodded eagerly, not even questioning what he was eating when he pulled the cheese off the stick.

He ate two cheese sticks before Patrick decided he was going to make him work for the last slice of bread he’d brought up with him. “It’s right in front of you, babe. You just have to… stretch a little.” Pete let out a low moan of frustration when he tugged at the bonds fastening each of his limbs to a different bedpost. “I can’t reach, Trick.” He was trying to pull himself towards the food waiting for him further up the pillow, Patrick took a step back to admire his work.

Petewas spread out on his tummy, all of his limbs spread out and tied to the bed so he had as little room to move as possible. A black cloth was tied around his eyes, preventing him from seeing anything and the dark green tie decorating his tanned skin, splattered with dark bruises in the shape of Patrick’s mouth. He could see every vertebra on his back, like a trail leading down to his ass, where a black plug stood out between his round cheeks.

Patrick’s face pulled into a smirk again as he watched Pete trying to move towards the food, whining pathetically when it caused the plug to brush against his prostate. “I’ll make sure everybody leaves within the next hour, make sure to keep quiet whilst I wrap things up here. If I hear a single noise, only one of us is going to come to night, and it won’t be you.” Patrick pressed a kiss to Pete’s spine and trailed his tongue down it, finishing just below the dip in his back as he pulled away and walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.

He may be into kinky shit, and he liked the idea of anybody being able to walk in on his boyfriend, tied up like a common whore, but he knew Pete would more than proverbially murder him if that happened, so he slipped the golden key – literally and metaphorically – back into his pocket and headed downstairs.

Patrick found it even harder to fixate his conversation on the people around him now than he had before, knowing he was so much closer to finally, _finally_ getting his hands on Pete, but he did his best, laughing and smiling and nodding along to distant conversations. He couldn’t, however, resist the urge to glance at his watch every couple of minutes, begging time to pass more quickly as he grew more impatient.

When he had finally seen the last couple off, he locked off their house, shut off the lights and practically sprinted up the stairs, towards their master bedroom.

Pete had managed to eat the bread he’d been left and Patrick could tell he wanted nothing more than to rut against the mattress, the friction it provided enough to drive him insane, but not enough to get him off as long as he couldn’t rub against it. Patrick paced towards him, making himself go slower than he would like. All he wanted was to tear his pants off and bury himself balls deep in Pete, but rushing now after waiting for five hours would be a shame and a real waste.

He casually slapped Pete’s ass as he walked past, causing him to spasm and grunt as he tried to suppress a moan. Patrick absently hummed a tune he’d been working on for a few days as he dug through their “adult time” drawer, fishing out lube, a condom and a dildo before slowly making his way back to the bed.

He perched on the end Pete’s head was at, still humming quietly, and slicked up the latex dick before gently stroking Pete’s jaw with his free hand. “Open wide, baby,” he commanded, and Pete did as he’d been told. Patrick just stared at him for a moment, taking in the image of the love of his life tied to a bed, blindfolded, his mouth hanging open, ready for what he thought was Patrick’s dick, completely trusting him. Patrick shook himself when he felt himself slide into a soft, sappy place where he wanted to kiss and cuddle Pete. Later.

He slid the purple latex past Pete’s parted lips and smiled to himself when his face pulled into a confused frown when he realized the dick in his mouth wasn’t a real one. Or maybe he only realized it wasn’t Patricks and filled the gaps in for himself. Either way, he was hesitant when he started gently sucking at the tip before gradually sinking down lower. Patrick trapped his bottom lip between his teeth as he slowly began working the toy further into his boyfriend’s mouth, carefully so Pete had plenty of opportunity to stop if he needed to.

He coughed a little when he had to suppress his gag reflex, but Patrick knew he could take it, knew Pete could handle a cock down his throat, he knew what it felt like when he swallowed around it. Patrick palmed at his own now fully hard dick through his pants and moaned quietly, setting Pete off, too. He pulled off, spit and lube dripping from his lips and Patrick bent forwards to kiss it off as his fingers rushed to get his clothes off. His belt buckle clattered against the wooden floor as his pants landed on it in a pile around his ankles and he stepped out of them, kneeling on the bed in front of Pete’s face as he tangled his fingers in the messy dark hair to guide him onto his real dick.

Patrick threw his head back and let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when he felt warm lips wrap around him and slowly work their way down. He glanced down at Pete who was looking at him through hooded eyes, his tongue curling around the cock in his mouth, his face innocent, as though he was oblivious to what he was doing. “Jeeeesus, Pete, fuck.” Patrick tugged his hair so he slid further down, not pushing him when Pete held against it. Patrick almost cried out when he pulled back and sucked at the tip, his tongue ghosting over the slit and gathering the precum already leaking from him.

Pete moaned loudly around him and, in one go, slid forward until his nose was touching the coarse hair at the base of Patrick’s erection. “Fuck, _fuck_ ” he panted when Pete swallowed around him “ _Pete_ I’m gonna- I’m” He felt his hard-on bounce against his stomach when it popped out of Pete’s mouth and he groaned in frustration as he knelt there with his eyes closed for a moment, gathering himself.

He stroked Pete’s hair gently, who was whimpering pathetically below him, like a lost puppy. Funny, how people always thought Patrick was the twink, how they thought Patrick begged for Pete to touch him whilst Pete was a little bitch about it. His gaze drifted to the black plug still buried deep inside him and he climbed over Pete until he could settle between his open legs. He poked it experimentally, causing Pete to whine even more. Patrick leaned over his body until his lips were tracing Pete’s ear from behind. “You want this out?” he whispered as he hooked a finger around the base. “You want me to pull this out and fuck you? Do you want me to fuck you, Pete?”

“P-please” Pete’s breath hitched in his throat and he arched his neck so his head was resting on Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick, in turn, lowered his head and bit Pete’s neck before sucking a mark over his pulse point as he twisted the black plug still inside him. “Please what?” his voice was low as he continued lapping over the bruise he’d just left. “Please fuck me Patrick, I w-want you to f- ah!”

The black glass was heavy on the duvet covers next to Patrick’s leg and he reached for the lube he’d left on the night stand. He slicked up three of his fingers before pushing two in, earning a low moan from Pete as he twisted and turned his wrist in search of his prostate. “Ah, gotcha.” He smiled as Pete writhed below him and he stroked across it a few times before whispering, “Can you take some more, baby?” Patrick smiled when he was answered with an eager nod and he added the third finger, gently spreading them out, making room in Pete’s ass. He pulled back, going back to his spot between Pete’s open legs and Pete let out a grump “hmpf” at the loss of Patrick’s body heat over his back, “it’s okay, baby, just giving back what I got,” Patrick reassured before lowering his head and lightly kissing around Pete’s entrance.

The amount of times Pete had already whimpered was absurd, and Patrick’s tongue licking around him in short flicks before breaching his body was only adding to that number. He kept a finger inside as he lapped at Pete, hungrily, soaking up the noises he was making as Patrick pushed all the right buttons deep inside of him, the ones only he knew how to push.

Just when Pete was starting to get louder, to get closer, he pulled out and left him dry and empty. “Patrick-“

“Shut up.” Pete’s arms flexed in their restraints and Patrick looked at his wrists, marked where he’d artistically tied the thin rope around them. He  
He‘d been like that going on for six hours. Patrick started humming again when he slid up Pete’s body and straddled him just below his shoulder blades so he could reach up to the headboard where his boyfriend’s arms were fixated. “Such a good boy for not complaining once,” his tone was patronizing, but he knew Pete loved the praise. “You didn’t make a sound, but this must have hurt.” He rubbed the sore wrists for a while, willing them to loosen up a little before dropping them above Pete’s head. The noise that escaped the older man’s throat sounded very much like a strangled “thank you.”

Patrick slid back down the tanned body, leaving kisses along the way, before deciding enough was enough and grabbing the condom and lube. He tore the wrapper with his teeth and smiled when even that was enough for a shudder to shoot through Pete’s sweating body. He rolled the rubber on and made sure to coat it in plenty of lube before he lined himself up, “ready, baby? You ready for me?”

“Fuck yeah.” Patrick slid in, forcing himself to go more slowly than he would have liked, Pete was loose enough for him to be able to do it more quickly if he wanted to, but still so tight he found it hard to hold on. “You were so good to me before, so good. Such a good boy.” Pete whined at the words muttered in his ear. Or maybe at the dick hitting his prostate. “Could have moaned or screamed, but you were quiet for me.” Patrick slid in all the way, “so quiet, so good.”

He set a steady pace, holding himself up on his hand either side of Pete’s head as he nibbled at his ear and bit his neck. Pete’s hands were gripping the pillow, his knuckles turning white and Patrick could see his eyes were scrunched up tightly because his head was tilted to the side.

He sped up when he felt himself getting closer, faintly aware of Pete thrusting a hand underneath them to tug at his own dick, and then he cried out Patrick’s name as he rocked against the mattress and back into him, riding out his orgasm as their hot bodies rubbed against each other, sweat sticking them together.

Aware of how over-sensitive his partner must be, Patrick picked up some more speed. He was totally going to be selfish enough to finish off inside of Pete.

He thrust one, two, three more times before a wave of warmth overcame his head and shot right through his stomach, to his dick and into the thin layer of latex between their bodies and Patrick’s back arched, his head was thrown backwards as he let out a loud, long, breathy moan.

Patrick dropped onto Pete, hot and sweating, as he caught his breath. They lay there for about two minutes before Pete bucked his hips, urging Patrick to get up. “Somebody’s impatient.” He muttered against his back. “My fucking ankles hurt. And can you please get your dick out of my ass.” Patrick pulled a face before pulling back and out of him. He spun around, taking care of the bindings around Pete’s legs before getting up and disposing of the condom.

When he came back from the bathroom carrying a wet cloth, Pete was sitting up, face scrunched up in discomfort as he massaged the marks the ropes had left on his ankles. Patrick sat down next to him. “You okay?” Pete nodded, “just a bit tight, maybe chill on the tying up next time, okay?” Patrick nodded, understandingly, “sorry. I think I was a little _too_ into it.”

“I was into it too, until about 30 minutes ago.” Patrick smiled at him and gently wiped his forehead with the cool cloth. Pete leaned into the touch and hummed contently. “I really love you, Pete. I love you a lot.”

Pete’s grin had always been to die for, but he had this one special grin, this very, very bright one, that he only reserved for Patrick, and that was Patrick’s favourite. He took Pete’s face in his hands and stroked his cheeks with his thumbs as he gently pressed their lips together in a soft kiss.

Patrick pulled on a pair of pyjamas before crawling into bed with a still naked Pete and felt his muscular figure curl up against his chest when he flicked out the light. Patrick drew little circles on his back as Pete tucked his head under Patrick’s chin and they stayed like that until sleep washed over them both.


End file.
